These are two kids who need to learn how to vacuum. Credit: Amy L. Hatch

By Amy L. Hatch

My vacuum cleaner broke about a month ago.

Truth be told, it probably bit the dust (bunnies) when we tossed our Christmas tree on Jan. 1. The amount of pine needles on our floors and in the carpets was truly unprecedented.

A couple of days after we’d dismantled the holiday decorations I tried to vacuum up some Lucky Charms (don’t judge) from the family room carpet to no avail. I switched the bag, my husband cleaned out the innards and, still, it would not suck.

Which totally did suck.

I’m not normally a neatnik but there is something so gross about dirty floors, am I right? Dirty toilets and floors really just scream, “Call social services and then, call the producers of ‘Hoarders!’”

I am about as organized as I am neat and so weeks passed without the vacuum being fixed, or even examined to determine its ailment. There was enough food on my carpet to feed a small nation.

Anyone who knows me well also knows that a small black cloud hovers just over my left shoulder. Weird stuff just happens to me. Cabinets fall off walls (yes, really, remind me to tell you about it sometime), computers go on the fritz — and vacuums stop working.

My sister recently bought one of those at-home soda makers and she was so enamored of it she wanted to send me one, too, until I told her how I tripped over the cord of our new printer literally days after buying it and watched it crash onto the floor.

“Um, you know,” she said, “this has one of those canisters of CO2. I think maybe I shouldn’t send you one.”

And she was so right.

But lately my luck seems to be turning. Yeah, my cloud is still there, but it seems to be more gray than black. I even smile at it from time to time.

In January, out of the blue, Laura and I were invited to attend a blogger’s summit hosted by Kenmore. Yes, Kenmore of Kenmore appliances. The brand generously hosted us at a swanky hotel in Chicago and we got to meet some really awesome fellow bloggers, writers and entrepreneurs.

After a day spent in the Kenmore Live Studios (where I got to meet Suzy Singh of “Master Chef,” squee!) , they sent us on our way with the promise that we’d soon get a special delivery at home.

You’ll never guess what I got.

Yep, a vacuum cleaner.

It arrived on a day when even my children — lo, the source of the filth — were bemoaning our lack of a vacuum. No kidding. They were complaining about it when we rounded the corner to our house.

And there was a box on the porch. A beautiful, beautiful box containing a Kenmore vacuum cleaner.

It took a day or two for me to finally bust that box open but when I did, a true miracle occurred.

I actually enjoyed cleaning my house.

Now if only someone would send me a new range, washer and dryer — then cooking and laundry might be tolerable, too!

Amy L. Hatch is a co-founder and editor of chambanamoms.com and you never, ever want to look under the beds in her house. She can be reached at amy@chambanamoms.com. Her travel, lodging and brand-new vacuum cleaner were generously provided to her at no cost by Kenmore.

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Play with me, Mom! Credit: Amy L. Hatch

By Amy L. Hatch

My kids had a random day off school this week and I had meetings stacked up all day.

I hadn’t realized that they’d be home (way to check the school calendar, dummy) and it was too late to get a sitter. Instead, my husband volunteered to hang out with them while I went about my business.

While I was gone the kids and their dad had a grand old time. There was wrestling and games and general horseplay.

The minute I walked in the door they were on me like white on rice. They clamored for me to do the science experiment I’d agreed to before I left the house. And, just as an aside, when you’re buying Christmas gifts for your kids? Skip the books filled with science experiments.

So I changed out of my skirt and tights and we made some ice cream with milk, ice and some plastic bags.

Then we ate the ice cream. Then we played Legos. Then we built a movie theater out of blocks for a stable of miniature plastic ponies. Then there was a fire in the movie theater so we had to build a hospital.

Then, one of the ponies was arrested for setting the fire and so, we had to build a pony jail.

Finally, I hauled myself off the living room floor to make dinner when my son, shirtless and in his pajama pants from the night before, grabbed my hand and begged, “But Mommy! Play with me!”

Without thinking I answered him.

“No!” I said.

For about a nanosecond I felt terrible. Then I looked at the clock and realized I’d been sitting on the floor with them for over two hours, and before that their dad played with them.

I didn’t want to play anymore. I’d reached the limits of my adult imagination. If I had to play for even 30 seconds more, I was the one who was going to be in pony jail for committing a pony massacre.

And I’m OK with that.

I know there are a lot of parents out there who love to play. Parents who possess endless patience and creativity and who dream up the kind of crafts that end up making me feel like The Worst Parent Ever when I see them on Pinterest (which is, by the way, a very special kind of hell for mothers who feel any kind of guilt about not being Suzy Homemaker).

And sometimes I do feel guilty. Sometimes I wish I was the kind of mom who truly enjoyed playing. It isn’t that I don’t want to spend time with my children, and I do play with them a lot.

However, I also want them to learn how to entertain themselves. It’s a good skill that comes in handy at airports and during corporate meetings.

This is a tale I hear frequently from my friends who have kids. It also seems to be something we don’t remember from our own childhoods. I can’t recall a single instance of my mom playing with me. I’m sure she did, but I’m also sure she didn’t spend as much time with Barbie and Matchbox cars as I do.

Next time I see her, I’m going to ask her how she got out if it because damn if I’m not all played out.

Amy L. Hatch is a co-founder and editor of chambanamoms.com and she can identify every My Little Pony by their cutie mark. She can be reached at amy@chambanamoms.com.

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By Amy L. Hatch

Newsflash: Parenthood is hard.

Some days I feel like Cinderella, being ordered around by two small, bossy step-siblings who firmly believe my only job is to clean up after them and serve their every need.

Credit: masatoshi_, Flickr

Mom, Mom, MOM!

But I keep at it, because I just know someday a tiny mouse is going to come and — poof! — conjure me a luxury sedan in which I will be whisked to their college graduation ceremonies at Harvard.

Or something like that. What I’m trying to say is that this gig is a whole lot of drudgery with these insanely bright flashes of pure joy that make all the hard work completely worthwhile.

I know, too, that for my children there will come a time when hard work and drudgery will enter their own lives. To some extent, it already has. Hard math problems and spelling tests for the girl, and a long day learning to sit and follow directions for the boy.

They work hard at growing up, and it’s easy to forget that. Being a person is tough and they do their best.

That’s why I don’t feel bad when we break the rules — together.

This week when we finally got a visible snowfall that stuck to the streets and the grass, I woke up early with my son. He was so excited to see the white flakes outside his window while we had a snuggle.

His sister was equally thrilled. Coming from the snow belt (Google “blizzard of ’77″ sometime) I’m always bemused by the dustings we seem to get here, so it cracks me up to watch my kids behave as though we’re suddenly living on the tundra.

But it was cold and windy, and the snow was blowing past the windows nearly sideways. I checked the news, half-hoping that school would be called off so all of us could hang out at home.

Alas, school was open.

So instead of fruit, toast and cereal, we had hot chocolate, whipped cream and marshmallows for breakfast.

With a side of chocolate-chip cookies.

It was great. And I know the kids will remember it. Just like they will remember the times we ate dessert before dinner, skipped school for a mani-pedi or stayed in our pajamas until noon, casting spells and watching ‘Harry Potter’ on repeat.

Life is so filled with rules and regulations and structure, and of course that is how it should be. I crave order and predictability as much as the next mom. But then there are those days when it’s snowing and you have to go to school anyway.

Those days are tailor-made for breaking the rules.

What about you? How do you break the rules?

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Credit: Rennett Stowe, Flickr

To: Three-And-A-Half
From: Your Mother, CEO
RE: Performance Assessment

Dear Three-And-A-Half:

It has come to our attention that your department has been under-performing in a number of ways and we consider this state of affairs to be very serious, indeed.

Your newfound belief that you are autonomous is, for the most part, in error. While you are able to get around under your own power and even take care of your own bodily functions, you are still required to follow direction.

To assist you, we remind you that you must continue to follow company directives regarding:

Bedtime

Bathing

Eating
Use of the collective entertainment systems, including but not limited to Netflix
Crossing streets and parking lots
Consumption of treats
Getting in and out of the car
Dressing
Undressing
The wearing of undergarments and/or pants

Staying within sight of a manager at all times when interacting with the public

While we can certainly understand your desire to operate independently, the fact of the matter is that you are, indeed, still in training. While we would prefer to foster a productive environment for you and your colleague, seven, we will not hesitate to publicly reprimand you.

We do appreciate your ability to navigate some tasks without constant supervision, especially your use of the potty and getting your own snacks and beverages. This comes in handy when the CEO is taking meetings with your father or managing the facilities.

We also enjoy your willingness to climb into the car by yourself, as well as your ability to unbuckle your seat belt. However, removing your safety restraints while your supervisor is otherwise occupied with driving is frowned upon.

We are also very happy with your smooth transition to your new sleep facilities. However, we would ask that you keep your visits to headquarters limited during the night shift. If you can accomplish this, we anticipate that we can offer you some interesting incentives.

We sometimes find ourselves wishing we’d stuck with three, but we took you on and we intend to complete your training and move on to four.

In the meantime, we would also like you to remember that backtalk, defiance and sarcasm are not appreciated and will not be tolerated. Consider yourself on probation from this point forward.

Sincerely,
Your Mother
CEO

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Credit: elleinad, Flickr

By Amy L. Hatch

I am terrible at keeping my New Year’s resolutions.

Every year I resolve to eat better, exercise and floss my teeth. I vow to get organized, wear makeup every day and cook healthy meals I can stick in the freezer and pull out, Houdini-like, to serve to my waiting family members all seated calmly in their seats at the dinner table.

Yeah. None of that ever happens.

Last year was no different. In 2011, I resolved to be present in my life, to stop thinking of what comes next and what happened last. I failed miserably. The past 12 months have been very challenging, in fact.

I spent more time than I care to admit glued to my laptop screen. My smart phone was attached to my hand and every chance I got I compulsively checked my email to make sure I wasn’t missing some command from some distant master.

Such is the life of a modern freelance worker. Far-flung clients and limited face time create an anxiety that never surfaced back when I was a cheeks-in-a-seat cubicle dweller in Corporate America. Striking out on my own as a writer, editor and social-media consultant for hire (and, of course, co-founding chambanamoms) has been mostly exhilarating–and sometimes, crazy-making.

And you know what? Even if I did spend my daylight hours in a traditional office with my manager down the hall, there is still a level of uncertainty that never touched my dad, who was a company man if ever there was one. He worked at his company for 35 years!

Today, that’s unimaginable.

All this to say that I was not present in 2011. Not for my family and not for my friends. And you know what?

I’m here to tell you, it sucked.

I was stressed out, I didn’t feel well physically and my kids definitely got the brunt of it. I’d sit on the floor to play with them, but I’d have my laptop next to me while I moved cars and trucks or dolls. More than once my son pushed my computer closed and said, “Mommy, no computer! Turn it off!”

Mother of Year over here.

This year I also turned 40. And with that unprecedented number came a new and uncomfortable proximity to my own mortality. I began to wrinkle, my joints ached and I found hairs in places ladies shouldn’t have them.

Now, at the very tail end of 2011, I look at my newly minted children and think about how the time is so very fleeting. I’ve said before how I understand intellectually that these days are are like water running through my fingers.

Now, I understand that with my heart, as well.

In 2012, I am going to stop saying, “In a minute.” I am going to sit on the floor with all of my electronic devices silent and sleeping while I play Sorry and Hungry, Hungry Hippos.

I will visit my mother more. I will talk to my friends on the phone and go out with the girls for drinks and dinner. I will kiss my husband in the kitchen while we do the dishes.

I will fret less and frolic more.

I have a new slate, and so do you. What will you write on yours this new year?

Amy L. Hatch is a co-founder and editor of chambanamoms.com, and she really does need to floss more. She can be reached at amy@chambanamoms.com.

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Credit: Amy L. Hatch

By Amy L. Hatch

My children are sitting quietly right now, one reading and one playing with trucks and cars.

We’re in our pajamas, and it’s well after our normal get-dressed-get-out-do-errands weekend routine. It is a Sunday, and we are savoring time.

The holidays are so hectic, for us and for everyone we know. The machinery of Christmas begins the day after Thanksgiving with Black Friday and the frenzy to get all the best bargains.

Everywhere I look on Facebook people are finished with their shopping. Some of my friends are even wrapping gifts. Trees are up, cookies are baked and cards are sent. So far, we’ve got our tree up and the house is decorated.

I’m calling that a victory.

Last year I killed myself to make The World’s Most Perfect Christmas for Everyone. I baked, shopped, wrapped, planned for and executed an early Christmas Eve and Christmas morning for our kids here at home, a week before the official date.

I baked like a madwoman, and castigated myself for not making the cherry poppyseed thumbprints that my mother-in-law really loves. I applied for a job, one that required a long and complicated edit test, which for those of you who aren’t in the media field, is a document that tests your skills and asks you to basically outline a completely original, 12-month editorial plan (needless to say, in a stroke of good fortune, I did not get that job).

We traveled, we hosted, we threw a birthday party for our daughter — it would be easier to tell you what we didn’t do, because that is a much shorter list.

By the first day of 2011, we were all out of breath.

While the details of our holiday season are uniquely our own, more and more I see people I know undergoing the same grueling–and self-inflicted–schedule.

Last year, I resolved to be more present in 2011 and, frankly, I failed miserably. I did not stop and take stock of my life. I spent more time with my eyes glued to the laptop or smartphone when I was with my kids than I care to admit. I rushed, ran and, as a result, also did a lot of ranting.

Right now it’s mid-December. I have baked one kind of cookie, a half-assed pan of mint peekaboos. I am not finished shopping and nothing is wrapped. The birthday party we threw for our daughter was incredibly low-key.

I should feel terrible: Anxious and slightly manic. I should be up until midnight making the holidays just right.

But a day or so ago, it snowed.

And my 3-year-old shot into my room like he had a rocket on his back and yelled, “MOM! IT SNOWED!”

There was barely a dusting but the child was so purely joyful that I couldn’t help but smile. That’s when I realized that the magic will happen whether I bend it to my will or not.

So I’m looking at time a little differently today. This time is fleeting–all of it, not just December. My children are still little enough to delight in a hard frost and ask for snuggles at midnight.

This is our time.

So today, I’m in my pajamas. At noon.

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Got a ball cap? You're halfway to a Halloween costume! Credit: mecookie, Flickr

By Amy L. Hatch

Halloween is Monday (it’s kind of hard to tell, what with all the CHRISTMAS decorations up in stores now), and it got me thinking about all the different roles moms play and the kind of costumes we wear when we’re performing our motherly duties.

That, and the fact that my 3-year-old said he wanted to be me for Halloween. I mean, does that kid know what side his bread is buttered on, or what? And yes, I did let him have a brownie for breakfast that day. And how easy is that? I mean, if you don’t have your costume all planned out already (and no, I do not, surprise!) these can all be assembled from items in your closet!

So without further ado, I offer you these Mom’s Masquerade Ball ideas!

The Preschool Walk of Shame Mom
This one is so simple, it’s almost criminal. Sleep on your hair for eight hours. Find the rattiest, ugliest and most disgusting pair of pajama pants you have in your drawers. Top that with a huge T-shirt stolen from your husband’s stash of college Ts he won’t get rid of, preferably with stains. Smash a baseball cap on your head and wear flip-flops, no matter what the temperature. Grab your car keys and get ready to drop the kids off for trick-or-treats! Optional: Torn jeans and/or sweats in place of pajama pants, brushed teeth and underwear.

The Working Mom
Again, you can pull the necessary items for this get-up from your closet and your kitchen! Hunt around in your wardrobe for the one pair of dress pants that fit you, which are also the same pair you keep forgetting to dry clean. Do not attempt to press these pants. Toss on a sweater and put on some mascara but forget your lipstick. You will need to carry: One enormous laptop bag, one enormous pocketbook (dirty socks and cookie crumbs in the bag are a great way to make your costume more authentic) and at least one child’s backpack. You also need to balance your smart phone, a travel mug of cold coffee and the school snack for 30 in your arms at the same time as you attempt to walk out the door. Maintain this feat as you trick-or-treat, or the costume loses its authenticity. Optional: A headband stolen from your 6-year-old daughter’s room.

The Stay-At-Home Mom
This costume looks a lot like The Working Mom, but you can add a few extra touches. Trade your dress pants for jeans, cords or chinos, and make sure your sweater has at least one hole, preferably under the arm. Remember: You never have time to shop for yourself because you always have a kid with you! You can leave the laptop bag at home (yours is never charged because your kid keeps burning the battery playing games on pbskids.org), but please add a diaper bag. If you feel up to it, strap a baby carrier to your chest, and tuck your smart phone next to the baby’s neck — on vibrate, of course. You also need to carry a travel mug of cold coffee, but you absolutely must add a sign on your back that says, “Ask me to volunteer for something! Because you KNOW SAHMs just have OODLES of free time!” Optional: Wet or dirty hair.

The June Cleaver Mom
Put on your prettiest dress, Spanx and hose. Heels are a must. Shower, do your make-up and  style your hair. Then, bake two dozen absolutely perfect cupcakes, decorate them using homemade marshmallows in the shape of wee ghosts and place them in your cupcake carrier. Hang that over your right arm. Over your left arm, drape the negligee you plan to slip into later after you tuck your children into bed and they fall asleep the second they hit their pillows, after bathing themselves and cleaning their rooms. Optional: Perfume. And remember to follow this one to the letter — because after all, Halloween is all about fantasy!

 Amy L. Hatch is an editor and co-founder of chambanamoms.com, and the last time she dressed up for Halloween was 1983. She can be reached at amy@chambanamoms.com.

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Credit: matizi, Flickr

By Amy L. Hatch

I had a chance to really stop and appreciate small-city living this week.

I took my daughter to Boston for a baby shower, a journey that required three airports: Willard, O’Hare and Logan. Then, yesterday, I left for New York City, again via O’Hare–and I’m pretty sure O’Hare is really the third circle of hell. After jogging from one end of the airport to the other, I settled in at my gate Wednesday morning.

Only when I asked the gate agent if I had time to make a run to the loo did I get the information that my flight was in the middle of boarding–at another gate.

And that’s one of my O’Hare stories with a happy ending.

When we first moved to Urbana I was shocked by how small the airport was, and found myself annoyed when the same guy who rolled the jetbridge to the plane was the same person who had to unload the luggage and send it out at baggage claim.

I’d tap my foot and sigh, and tap my foot some more. Oh, it took so LONG!

These days, I’m so grateful for the easy, hassle-free and–most importantly–friendly feel of good old CMI. When Emmie and I showed up to check in last week, the lovely woman behind the counter recognized us and set about making sure we had bulkhead seats–together–on both of our flights. She knew my name, and knew that I have a flying phobia.

She made sure to tell me the weather was clear as a bell and not to worry. Then, she gave us priority boarding passes and clucked when I said I didn’t have a frequent flyer card. She quickly got me one, and added my last three trips to my account.

Contrast that with my experience coming home out of Logan Airport in Boston two days later. The gate agent barely looked at us, and, when I pointed out that Emmie and I were seated in different rows, she shrugged and told me there was nothing she could do.

The gate agent was equally cranky, but at least she didn’t make me ask someone to move so we could sit in the same row–which I have had to do in the past.

I found myself thinking about how small-town life makes so many things easier. Air travel. Commuting (these days, I moan and groan if it takes me more than 10 minutes to get to my destination, when my work commute used to take 45 minutes). I found myself thinking about CMI, and Donna, the nice lady behind the counter. And the TSA agent who called my little girl “honey.”

There’s lots that I still miss about big-city life. And when we go to visit the urban places I’ve lived in, I still feel a pull toward that fast pulse.

But when we land at CMI, while the pace is slower, I know I’m home.

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Credit: Ellipsis-Imagery, Flickr

by Amy L. Hatch

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had to travel for business since my children were born.

Over the last seven years, I’ve averaged about one trip per year–and on one of those trips, I took my daughter with me. But in the next 10 days, I will take two round-trip flights to two separate cities. This weekend we go to Boston for my sister-in-law’s baby shower, and I turn around three days later and fly to New York City for business.

And, of course, our little man has suddenly developed a case of separation anxiety of epic proportions. It doesn’t help that his big sister gets to come along on my Beantown jaunt. For days I waffled about when to tell Henry about this double betrayal. Emmie solved the dilemma for me, by the simple fact that she is constitutionally unable to keep a secret.

The day before our departure drop-off at school was…difficult.

The boy who never looked back on his very first day of school ever cried so sadly when I left him at the elevator that one of the teachers was compelled to pick him up. As he wailed, I caught a glimpse of his face over her shoulder and, well. It hurt.

The entire week was fraught with similar scenes, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. I know that he and his dad are going to have a blast while Emmie and I are busy guessing the circumference of my sister-in-law’s belly. They will dine on French fries and I heard a rumor that there was a trip to Sweet Indulgence in the works.

The last time I left the boys home to their own devices, Henry learned how to play his toy piano with his feet.

They will be fine. Better than fine. They will have a chance to hang out, just the guys, that they rarely get. And my daughter and I will have the same. A day in Boston visiting my  alma mater and her dad’s, too, and a little shopping on Newbury Street, followed by an afternoon filled with estrogen, tea and cookies.

But that face over that shoulder…it cracked my heart a little.

But isn’t that what motherhood is, really? A series of cracks in your heart? Eventually they fill in. And when you’re done, when your babies are gone, I imagine it bears no resemblance at all to the smooth, strong organ that beat cheerfully along before pieces of it were walking around your living room in a pair of Superman underpants or a pink sundress.

The night before I left, Henry gave me a run for my money. He couldn’t hold still. He ran away from me when it was time to get his medicine and wash his face. He repeatedly, emphatically threw his entire body against the frame of our guest-room bed, where we watch TV before tuck-in time, thud thud thud!

Finally, he was snug in bed. While we cuddled under his covers he looked at me and whispered, “I don’t want you to go to Boston.”

Craaaaacccck!

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Credit: markhillary, Flickr

by Amy L. Hatch

I was 12 years old when my father brought home a Macintosh computer.

My dad was an engineer, a frequent and devoted early adopter (as is my mom) and he knew a gorgeous piece of machinery when he saw it. He talked our college-age neighbor into loaning him the student discount, and after he opened that box my whole world changed.

I wasn’t a stranger to computers; my dad brought them home from time to time from his office at Xerox Corp. Xerox and Apple have a storied, if tumultuous history and to the day he died, my father insisted that Jobs swiped the design for the Mac from Xerox’s think tank, the Palo Alto Research Park.

I typed my first term paper on an Apple. I produced my first “newspaper” using Mac Paint. I’m sitting here right now, writing this on the latest in a long line of Apple machines, the incredibly elegant and powerful MacBook Pro.

Why am I telling you this? Because I am deeply, deeply saddened that Steve Jobs has died.

Steve Jobs is inextricably linked to my entire creative life. The career I love, the life I live, would be largely impossible without the technology he created. I feel strongly that his influence spread far beyond the physical hardware. He inspired and enlightened an entire generation. He recognized and harnessed the power of the information age.

We all owe him a debt.

After my father passed away, I became keenly aware of what death means for those left behind. Aware of how it feels to face a new day without that person. Aware of what is lost because that person will no longer breath, love, laugh and create. I experience the death of others — even strangers — in a way that wasn’t possible before I endured true, personal grief.

Those who were closest to Jobs, his family and friends, his nearest and dearest ones, are suffering the deepest loss right now, of course. But he also belonged to the larger world. When the news broke, I watched the Twitter feeds I oversee, and a hashtag began to pop up over and over again: #thankyousteve.

I wanted to add my small voice to the many in giving thanks for and to a person I will never know, but who has nonetheless altered and in some ways created the landscape of my personal world. I was driving in my car when the news first broke, and I smiled as I imagined Steve and my dad shaking hands and finally burying the hatchet.

So thank you, Steve. Thank you very much.

Amy L. Hatch is a co-founder and editor of chambanamoms.com, and she is the mother of two native Apple users. You can reach her at amy@chambanamoms.com.

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